School for Secrets
by Guiltipleasures
Summary: At Whitestone Academy, Sherlock knew everything there was to know about everybody. Except for John Watson...but John intends to keep his secrets. High School AU. /Eventual Johnlock/ I love reviews! Just thought I'd throw that out there...
1. Chapter 1

**Hello Everyone! This is not my first fanfic, and definitely not my first bit of general writing, but this is my first time writing Sherlock fanfiction. I've been addicted to the show for a while now. Anxiously waiting for the third season, as I know all of you are as well. **

**First off, a couple of things you should know: I intend to make this a pretty long story, probably around 20 chapters. Now, I don't have it all planned out yet, but I have a general outline. Also, chapters will come at random intervals. I know, I'm horrible like that. I get easily bored with a project, or I get super busy (I'm a college student, so what's do to about it.) and I may not update for a while. And, I've never actually written a fanfic that long before. So, basically…here's hoping! :D**

**...**

CHAPTER 1

Sherlock stared absentmindedly out the window. Well, that's a bit of an overstatement; Sherlock was never absentminded.

Whitestone Academy came into view indistinctly amidst the pouring rain and shadowy trees on this particularly gray and bleak afternoon. Suddenly, Sherlock wasn't sure what to do with himself. He felt a disturbing feeling deep inside his chest. It was a little bit like bitter nostalgia, but more so like suffocating. Just the other day he had decided to muster all his perseverance and will-power and take it like a man, but now his resolve was weakening in the face of his current adversary: his last year of high school.

He gave an exasperated sigh as the bus screeched to a stop at the side of the boys' dormitory. It was too late now. The other boys hurriedly gathered their bags and jumped off the bus. They weren't any more excited than him, but they were tired from the long morning spent riding up there and were hoping to find their rooms and go to sleep and maybe, hopefully, have a second to forget that summer was over. Sherlock was easily ignored by his classmates as they brushed by him, loaded down with bags upon bags of luggage, as he sat silently in his seat, sulking to himself. He noticed the bus driver eyeing him impatiently as he gradually became the only passenger who remained. He watched all the other boys run through the rain and disappear behind the glass doors in the front of the dorm. He stole a glance at the bus driver, who showed a forced smile. Finally, Sherlock grabbed his one suitcase and left.

Admittedly, it wasn't that Whitestone was an exceptionally horrible school; it was only that school in itself was horrible. Sherlock tromped through the first week of the new school year, feeling as if he was being personally victimized by the sheer tedium and uselessness of it all. Sherlock could barely keep awake during the hour and a half long, lectured-filled sessions, and it was even more trouble for him to keep still and silent. He, of all people, certainly had no aversion to improving one's mental faculties. However, he had concluded that school offered no such benefit to anyone. All school did was train people throughout their early life to absorb pre-established facts, regurgitate them for a quiz or test, and then promptly forget them a few days later. The ability to memorize information did not equal intelligence, and repeatedly forcing outside information without processing it only damaged the capacity for actual thought. No wonder everyone was so stupid, Sherlock mused humorlessly.

Unfortunately, he had no choice as to whether he attended secondary school, and though he resented that, he reminded himself with relief that he only had one more year. Just one more year. He hadn't yet fully decided what he was going to do after he graduated. All he knew was that it had to be something interesting. Normal life was exceedingly dull.

Towards the end of that first week, as he was reading a critical theory book for his next class and contemplating how routine everything was, his thoughts were interrupted by the slamming of the classroom door. All heads shot up and turned to look. Standing at the door was a rather flushed boy Sherlock didn't know. Sherlock's initial reaction was to write him off as a rather disruptive, but momentary distraction and he went back to his book.

The boy mumbled a 'sorry' and started to walk aimlessly into the room, looking very awkward and as if he wasn't really sure why he was there. The teacher, Mr. Frankland, seemed to only then take notice of him. "Oh," he said. And, "You must be the new student."

"Yeah," the boy replied softly.

Mr. Frankland motioned for him to step forward. "Come on, then."

The boy was now standing in the front of the classroom, looking around at all the strange, unfamiliar faces. Mr. Frankland told him to introduce himself. "I'm John Watson," the boy said. He gave an abrupt wave of his hand as he spoke.

Sherlock looked up and began, as he usually did when meeting people, to analyze everything about them. Short blonde hair, rather square face, short stature, athletic build, he probably plays sports. Clean clothes, very clean and orderly, every piece of uniform accounted for, black tie and blue blazer and everything, anxiety written all over his face and in the way he wipes his clammy palms on his trousers; he obviously wants to make a good impression. Seems practical, somewhat reserved. Wonder why he moved to a new school his senior year. Trouble at his old school, possibly, which could also account for his obsessive attention to his first impression. Then again, he could just be self-conscious because of being a new student at an academy coupled with some inferiority complex due to his shortness. He does try very hard to stand up straight. Where is he from? Accent says London. Clothes and shoes are new, obviously, and almost too clean to get anything from. Almost.

John's tardiness was excused, since he was new. Mr. Frankland instructed him to take the empty seat in the second row to the back, which was in front and a few to the left of Sherlock. There was a blonde strand of hair on his shoulder. Too long to be his, could be a mother's or a sister's. Sherlock squinted. He needed more information. This was, after all, the only proper entertainment he was going to get that day.

John, already being overly conscious, immediately felt that someone was staring at him, and he kept stealing little wondering glances in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock didn't even care. He kept right on staring. This was John's first day of school, so he'd moved into the dorm yesterday afternoon or later. Funny, Sherlock hadn't noticed him then. Oh well, there were explanations for that. Sherlock could have been in the cafeteria, because he actually ate supper yesterday, or he could have been in his room, which was more than likely.

Sherlock took a glance at the clock. There were only about ten minutes left till first period was over. John didn't have a backpack with him, he had carried his things, which meant he already had a locker. Maybe there was more that he could learn about John from the contents of his locker!

Ten minutes later, the bell rang. Students quickly picked up their things and moved on towards their next class. Sherlock did the same, keeping his cool and sticking to the plan he had made up. He stayed a safe distance from John, every now and again stopping and pretending to play on his phone if he felt he was too close. He followed John to his locker. The hallways were still crowded with people shifting classrooms. Again, Sherlock pretended to be texting on his phone as he weaved his way through the stream of students coming and going, and just as John had his books in hand and was about to close his locker, Sherlock _accidentally_ bumped into him. Of course, he didn't _mean_ to. He also didn't _mean_ to knock all of John's books he had been carrying to the floor in the process, so that while he was muttering an apology and John was gathering his books again he could snoop through his locker.

"It's alright," John stammered in his response to Sherlock's half-hearted excuses for knocking into him. Then he looked up and saw the boy peering into his locker and rummaging through his things with a somewhat frustrated expression. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Nothing!" Sherlock hissed, though John didn't think it sounded like he was answering his question. He wasn't. "Nothing of interest! Just books and school supplies! No keepsakes, no clues! Not even a photograph! Are you really that opaque, or are you just exceedingly pedestrian?"

John was confused and, understandably, alarmed. "What the hell are you off about?"

"Oh, never mind," Sherlock grumbled. "Might as well bide my time." Suddenly, to John's increasing apprehension, he broke out in a smile. "Oh, who knows? This could be a bit of fun." He looked at John eagerly, sending an unexpected shiver down the boy's spine, and then he left with a bounding strut. John could only watch and stare, dumbfounded.

A girl, another senior who had witnessed the whole thing, approached John after Sherlock had left. "Are you alright?" she asked in an obliged manner.

John smiled good-naturedly. "Yeah, I'm alright. I just…he's…," he gave an uncertain chuckle, "everyone here isn't like that, are they?"

She didn't seem amused. In fact, she gave a scowl. "No," she said. "Sherlock Holmes is…_special_."

"Sherlock Holmes?" he said as if he wondered about the strangeness of the name, when really he was wondering exactly what she meant by 'special'.

"Yeah. If you want some advice, it's best if you stay as far away from that guy as possible."

"He can't really be that bad, can he?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

He nodded slowly, a little struck by how serious and pointedly she spoke. Since they both needed to get to class anyway, he said, "Well, I'll be seeing you then, I guess. Ah, I'm John, by the way."

"I know," she replied. "I was in class when you introduced yourself. I'm Sally."

"Nice to meet you, Sally." And with that, they each went to their separate classes.

At Whitestone Academy, Sherlock knew everything there was to know about everybody. He knew even more than he wanted to about their petty little lives, but he couldn't help himself. It was the thrill of being able to see past their pretentious facades, the relief of being able to use his mind for something other than menial, mundane tasks. Everyone knew that there were no such things as secrets when it came to Sherlock Holmes, and although the idea of it put most people on edge, there was nothing to do about it. There was no point in trying to hide anything from him. They forced themselves not to worry too much, because he didn't seem to care about the information. He cared about the process in getting the information, but he didn't care for infantile things like blackmail. If he had, he would be set for life, but other than the occasional slip of the tongue, those moments of complete and utter disregard of social grace and courtesy, he never disclosed what he knew. Still, everyone was fully aware that he knew more about them then they knew about themselves.

It really became too easy after a while. Once you pick up on a person's insecurities and tendencies, once you've observed them and deduced them on a few occasions, everything falls into place. People do what they want to do, what they're inclined to do, and once you figure out what kind of person they are, which wasn't all that difficult for Sherlock, everything becomes so predictable. It didn't take Sherlock three years at Whitestone to dissect everyone around him, all their flaws and secrets, and he quickly grew bored with them all. That was why he became so enthusiastic whenever a new student arrived. It didn't happen all that often, but suddenly here was a new senior named John Watson. After their first meeting, Sherlock hadn't been able to deduce everything about the new student, he knew that, but that only enhanced his excitement. If it was too easy, there would be no point. He already knew everything about everybody else, so now it was his mission, for however long it would last, to discover everything about John Watson.

...

The hair on his shoulder had probably been his sister's. It matched, anyway, in length and color. Sherlock was delighted when he realized there were not one, but _two_ new students at Whitestone Academy, though sadly his enthusiasm didn't last long. Harriet Watson was an open book, and Sherlock quickly discovered enough information about her to satisfy his curiosity for a while, including that she had a secret vice in the form of under-aged drinking and drug abuse, which she had been struggling to overcome for at least three years, that she wasn't a virgin, and that she was a lesbian. That collectively was at least part of the reason she was sent to Whitestone, no doubt. Why John was in Whitestone with her, unless it was just so he could look out for her, which may or may not have been the case, was more or less a mystery. Not to give the wrong impression; Sherlock didn't take long to deduce quite a bit about John Hamish Watson. For example, his middle name was Hamish. Also, he was a mostly unexceptional seventeen year-old boy who was in the band (he played the clarinet), used to play rugby and probably would have still if Whitestone had a rugby team (John had to settle for intramurals), was left-handed, was sensitive about his height, was good-natured and unassuming, and was easily susceptible to boredom. Alright, some of that information hadn't been acquired through deduction, but it _had_ been acquired through observation, which was alright. Plus, Sherlock was the one who made up the game, so he could change the rules if he liked.

It had taken three times for him to gather all this information, but Sherlock had excuses for that as well. They only had one class together, John insisted on sitting across the room from him, and to top it off John seemed intentionally secretive for some reason or another. Especially around Sherlock. Sherlock would have laughed at the idea that someone was trying to hide something from him if it wasn't for the fact that he had the nagging feeling that John had succeeded. Sherlock felt that there was something about John that he had missed, but he didn't know what it was; it was annoying.

...

John stood at the end of the cafeteria, gazing around and looking for a place to sit. He had already been at Whitestone Academy for a week, but he hadn't had any luck in making friends. Not that he was shy or awkward; okay, he had been the first couple of days, but once he had become accustomed to the school he could behave more normally. For the most part.

To John, Whitestone didn't seem like a school for bad kids, which is what he had expected when he and his sister had been shipped out there. But everyone, or mostly everyone, seemed pretty normal. There was one person who seemed a little..._strange_...but so far John had managed to keep a good distance from him.

Whitestone was, however, a fairly strict school. The list of what was considered contraband was extensive, curfew was at eight o'clock, and students were only allowed to go into town on the weekends. It all seemed a little extreme, and very, very boring.

John sighed. There wasn't anything he could do about it, and that annoyed him. He took slow uncertain steps as he looked for a table. He saw his sister, Harry, sitting with some girls far on the left end of the cafeteria, and he immediately turned away to try and avoid catching her attention. He had been avoiding her a lot since they arrived. It was her fault they were here, and he held a grudge against her for it. She had been trying to hang out with him recently, and he knew she would call him over to join her and her table if she saw him. He had to find somewhere else to sit, and quickly.

That's when he saw the black curly head of Sally Donovan. He hadn't spoken to her extensively, or at all, since that first time when she warned him about Sherlock Holmes, but he hadn't really spoken to anyone else either. She was already sitting with two guys that John didn't recognize, but he made his way towards her. He approached confidently, despite Sally's look of confusion when she noticed him.

"Hey," John said to her with a smile. "You mind if I sit with you?"

"Umm," she drawled, as if wondering if she really had a choice to say 'yes'. "Not at all."

He sat down across from her, next to one of her friends, who stared at him curiously.

"This is John Watson," Sally said to her two friends. The one next to John had dark hair and handsome features, and the one sitting by Sally had an angular nose. "That's Greg," she said, gesturing to the handsome one. "And," she pointed to the boy beside her, "everyone calls him Anderson."

"What's his real name?" John asked.

"Don't ask," Sally said with a smirk.

"…Alright."

"So, has the freak been giving you much trouble lately?"

"Sorry?"

"Sherlock Holmes," she said. "Have you had any trouble with him?"

"Oh." Her label of 'freak' had thrown him off. And, if he were to be honest, it bothered him. "No, not really." He didn't really want to stay on the subject, but his curiosity, as it usually did, got the better of him. "What exactly is…you know, what's his…?" He made vague gestures around his head to try to get his point across.

"You mean, what's wrong with him?" Anderson asked. John gave a slight nod, to which Anderson scoffed. "Who the bloody hell knows what's wrong with him."

"He's able to look at you for a few seconds and read your whole life story," Greg said, with a gleam in his eyes as he spoke. "And, he's a pretentious bastard."

"He's a psychopath," Sally corrected. "He figures out everyone's secrets just 'cause he gets a kick out of it."

John's face went pale as they were talking. "He can really do that?"

"He never really talks to anybody, he doesn't have any friends. He rarely sleeps or eats or, you know, anything else a human being normally does."

"He's brilliant, but he's completely mad."

"Somehow, he seems to know everything," Anderson said bitterly. "And he never forgets to remind us of it."

"Hey, are you alright?"

John put his fork down, not feeling particularly hungry anymore. His heart was pounding in his skull, and no, he was definitely not alright. "Yeah…fine."

As the other three continued talking about something other than Sherlock, John couldn't pay much attention. His eyes kept scanning the room, paranoia creeping in. Sherlock knew everything? No, that couldn't really be possible, could it? He spotted the boy, seated in a corner, pretty far from everyone else. He had a coffee and a book, and nothing and no one else with him. John stared; did Sherlock really know everyone's secrets? Did he know _his_? Sherlock glanced up from his book and met John's gaze.

_Shit._ John looked away as fast as he could. He wished his heart would stop beating so fast. And suddenly, he wished things would go back to being boring.

As the day wore on, John forced himself to think rationally. There was no way Sherlock was all the things Sally and the others had said he was, and there was certainly no way for him to know _everything_. John just needed to be calm; nothing was going to happen. Everything was going to be fine.

The only class that John had with Sherlock was Anatomy and Physiology, and the next day in that class John let his eyes wander and rest on the boy. He didn't know why Sally and the others seemed to dislike him so much. Sure, he was odd, but a "pretentious bastard"? He seemed to always have his nose in a book, and John hardly ever heard him speak. He had no clue where they could have come up with all that.

Well, the truth, which John couldn't have known at the time, was that the only reason Sherlock seemed less of a pretentious bastard than normal was because he had been able to occupy himself with John, who was too oblivious to realize that Sherlock had been studying him. However, he had since given up on that temporary distraction. He had learned more than enough about John Watson, and he forced himself to ignore that feeling that he had missed something because, as was obvious, he _couldn't have possibly_ missed anything. He was _Sherlock Holmes_, for God's sake. So, to his classmate's chagrin, he had returned to his usual egotistical self.

Well, they didn't know that he had yet, but he was just itching for a chance to show them. Brilliance needs an audience, after all. And he couldn't have asked for a better opportunity to show off when Mr. Frankland walked in to the classroom. "Yes, sorry I'm late," Mr. Frankland mumbled as he went briskly to his desk.

Sherlock took notice of him and then looked back down at his book with a smirk. "In a pleasant mood, are we? Mr. Frankland?"

Mr. Frankland froze. The class fell silent. Some glares were cast in Sherlock's direction. John looked around, confused.

"Well, I suppose one would be in a pleasant mood after a good snog with…oh, who was it his time?"

Mr. Frankland's face reddened and contorted in suppressed rage. "_Mr. Holmes_…"

"It must have been Mrs. Cairns. That appears to be her shade of lipstick smeared on your right hand from when you wiped it off your mouth. Am I right?"

"Oh for God's sake, Holmes!" one of the classmates hollered.

"You were probably late because you couldn't tear yourself away from—"

"_Mr. Holmes_!" the teacher yelled furiously. He tried to regain his composure, with little success. Through gritted teeth, he said, "May I speak to you after class?"

Sherlock's smile faded. "Oh, let me guess. You want to remind me how I should only say _nice_ things to people's faces to avoid bringing unwanted embarrassment." He went back to his book. "Dull."

John Watson stopped wondering why people called him a pretentious bastard. He also stopped telling himself that everything was going to be fine.

...It wasn't.


	2. Chapter 2

**Yay! New chapter! I got it done pretty quickly, because today was boring. Sorry if it seems slow, that wasn't intentional. And of course, review!**

**In this chapter, I reveal John's big secret. Because, really, it's not like it's going to surprise anyone what his secret is. I guess I could've tried to come up with a more original secret, but this was much easier. Maybe it's cliché, but it's for the sake of future Johnlock, so I'm sure I'll be forgiven :P.**

**...**

CHAPTER 2

It was a Monday, and John was sitting alone in the cafeteria at breakfast. He hadn't seen Sally or either of her friends. Admittedly, he hadn't been looking for them. He hadn't really been up for socializing recently; he just felt like taking some time by himself to think. So, he sat at the empty end of a table in the back of the cafeteria where he figured he wouldn't be bothered. He ate slowly, wondering all the while if he could really survive at Whitestone Academy.

When suddenly, "John!"

Damn. John massaged his forehead, trying to keep his cool as Harry rushed over to where he was seated. Harriet was a year older than John, but had been held back her junior year. Since then, John had been stuck in the same grade as her. At public school it hadn't mattered that much, because it was a big place and they didn't see each other often. Now, they were stuck at little Whitestone Academy together, where there was less than two hundred students, when Harry should have been in university already.

Harry had been sent to Whitestone because the academy liked to portray itself as having strict principles and a tendency to straighten students out. It _did_ have strict rules, as every student could attest to, but keeping up with them was another matter entirely, and there was definitely lenience in discipline. Whitestone, when it boiled down to it, was not much more than a regular academy. It was probably for his mother's pride, John suspected, that they weren't sent somewhere worse. She didn't want to have to tell people that she had to send both her children to a school for 'troubled' youth.

Harry grinned from ear to ear, sitting in the seat across from John. John glared at her.

The relationship between the siblings was a little complicated, especially of late. When they were younger, John had always admired his older sister, but she changed after their dad had passed. That had been years ago, but Harriet never really seemed to recover. In her early teens, it seemed like she thought up everything she knew she wasn't supposed to do and then went out purposely and did it, using their dad's death as an excuse for her behavior. Needless to say, John had lost all respect for his older sister. His feelings towards her had become a mixture of bitter disappointment and pity that usually overshadowed the brotherly affection he, in spite of himself, still had for her.

"I hardly ever see you anymore!" she whined.

"Yeah, sorry. I've been…busy." He didn't care how lame of an excuse it was.

She maintained a pout. "Whitestone is so small that I thought we would be hanging out more."

John argued, "You've already made some friends, you don't really need to hang around me."

She laughed. "It's not about whether or not I _need_ to. I _want_ to."

John felt guilty when his mind twisted that last statement out of its intended, endearing context to remind him that it seemed that all she ever did was what she wanted to, no matter how it affected those around her. His first instinct was to make some snarky comment, but he bit his tongue to prevent himself. Especially when he saw how she was smiling at him, he couldn't bring himself to say anything.

Suddenly, it hit John. Harry was smiling. Like an idiot. She was practically giddy. John looked her over carefully and there was no mistaking it. There could only be one reason for the way she was acting. "Alright, who is she?"

Harry's smile only got bigger, if that was possible. But she played innocent. "What are you talking about?"

"You're smiling like a bloody idiot, and I'm pretty sure it's not cause of me. You'd only be like that if some girl had caught your fancy, now who is she?"

Harry blushed modestly. "Oh, just some girl."

"Is she, you know…that way?"

"You mean gay?"

John involuntarily cringed at the word. "Yeah."

Harry frowned. "If you can't even say the word, you're never going to get used to it."

That was fine, because John didn't mean to get used to it. Once again, he bit his tongue to keep from saying what he was thinking.

"Anyway, I don't know if she is or not," she gave a devilish smile, "but I intend to find out." Then, her eyes lit up as if she had just thought of something brilliant. "You should come eat with us some time! It will get you to socialize, and you can meet Clara!"

"Come eat with you and your friends?" John frowned. "They're all girls."

Harry laughed. "So? It's not like anyone's going to get any ideas from you hanging around a bunch of girls. They'll probably just assume you're a ladies' man."

Still, John wasn't sure if he wanted to eat with Harry and her friends. At the very least, he hoped they weren't like the dejected stoners and drinkers that she had followed around at their old school. "Yeah, alright," he said, not wanting to crush his sister's enthusiasm. But he didn't want to make a commitment either, so, "Maybe."

Harry sat back with a satisfied grin. John went back to barely eating his food as Harry studied him for a moment, looking as if she still had something on her mind. After a few moments, she leaned forward, cupping her face in her hands, and asked, "So, has any _guy_ caught _your_ fancy?"

John choked. "Harriet!" he hissed, eyes darting around to see if anyone had heard her. "Keep your voice down."

She laughed mildly. "Calm down, nobody cares."

"I care," he said glaring. "And I'm _not_ gay."

And that was why John was sent to Whitestone. Initially, their mother had asked John to go so he could look after his sister, but John had refused. He didn't want to leave home and go to some stupid boarding academy just because his sister was a degenerate, and he didn't want to struggle his senior year trying to get adjusted to a new environment. It wasn't fair that he should have to leave to take care of his sister, and that's what he had kept telling their mother. And their mother had just been about to give in and let John stay home, when Harriet, afraid to go alone and desperately wanting John with her, had convinced their mother that _John_ was _gay_.

It wasn't that hard, really. Harry had pointed out the fact that John's girlfriends were few and far between, never lasting very long. She had stated the likelihood of John turning out gay when he had no father and had been partially raised by a gay older sister. She had told their mother that she had caught him with gay porn, which had been a blatant lie, but it still made their mother worry herself sick. John kept denying all of it, and though their mother wanted to believe him, the thought persisted in her mind. Their mother had been overly stressed and very worrisome in general since their father had died, especially over Harry. She couldn't stand the idea of both of her children being what any mother would probably consider 'abnormal', so, if only to be sure, she sent John to Whitestone as well.

That had only made John hate his sister more. All her bad habits, her addictions, her promiscuity had been her business, so even though it bothered him he had resolved to stay out of it. But then, out of pure selfishness, she had sufficiently turned him into a homosexual in the eyes of his mother and anyone else at home that might hear rumors. And if that wasn't enough, she seemed to want to turn him into a homosexual at Whitestone as well. But that wasn't even the worst part.

Harry rolled her eyes. "You're still clinging to denial, eh?"

There were two things that John decided were the worst in this whole situation. Worse than the fact that his mother was worried he was gay, causing her to send him to a boarding academy to straighten him out (no pun intended). The first of the two worst things was that Harry _actually and truly believed_ he was gay. This was bad because, not only was knowing that your sibling couldn't believe you were straight simply embarrassing, it meant she felt no remorse for her actions, which she innocently referred to as 'helping'. She didn't think she was doing anything wrong when she bothered him about it _constantly_.

"It's really not as horrible as you try to make it seem," Harry insisted. "You're gay. So what?"

"I'm_ not_."

Harry sighed. "If you don't hurry and come out of the closet, I might have to drag you out."

John stiffened. He had no idea how she intended to do that, but he could be sure he was going to hate it.

But there was something else. Something Harry didn't know; or maybe she did, and that was why she was torturing him. John had never told anyone, and he didn't plan on telling anyone until he could sort things out in his mind, in his own time.

"I'm not gay," he said determinedly. But there was a second worst thing—and in actuality it had no competition, this was _definitely without a doubt the worst thing ever_, but maybe John just wanted to downplay it in his mind to keep himself from overreacting. No matter the denial and the protests, no matter how he constantly said he wasn't gay, even as he uttered the words…he didn't completely believe them. There was a question, a nagging doubt in the back of John's mind._  
_

It made him angry. "Look," he told Harry. "Would you get off it? I'm not like you. Just because _you're_ gay doesn't mean _I_ am, alright? Leave me alone."

Harry looked hurt, but she understood, more than John thought she did. "Okay," she said at last. "Sorry." She managed a smile. "You will still come and eat with us, right?"

"Yeah, fine," he muttered, just wanting her to go away. "Whatever."

Harriet left hesitantly, and only because she didn't wish to antagonize her brother any further. So, John was left alone, now certain that he was never going to get that damn idea out of his head. It was all he could think about since he had heard that Sherlock could find out people's secrets; actually, it was all he could think about since he had first come to Whitestone. He did not want anyone to find out he was gay, if he was. He still wasn't sure. And even if he were sure, he didn't know if he could ever come out.

He wasn't even sure why he hated the idea of being gay so much, but he figured it probably had to do with his resentment of Harry. And then there was his mom. Oh, his mom would have a heart attack if he told her he was gay. She would feel like a failure. And what about him? The way people saw and treated him, his lifestyle, everything would change if he suddenly became gay. It was all too much, and he wished he could stop thinking about it. But he couldn't.

It wasn't as if Harry's accusations had sparked this life-changing revelation in John. He'd had questions long before Harry had voiced hers, but he had pushed them away. He had found himself wondering about, dreaming about, admiring guys on more than one occasion, but he had tried to ignore it or forget about it. It was just a fluke or a phase, he kept telling himself, there had to be another explanation, because he was certainly _not gay_. He had always liked girls; and no, he wasn't bi either. He didn't think.

John had been secretly struggling with his sexuality for a long time, but recent incidents had brought it all bubbling violently to the surface.

He grabbed his food tray furiously and took it to the racks by the dish room window. Of course, it was just his luck that he was sent to the academy that had a psychic, magician, sleuth, whatever the hell he was who had the ability to discover and reveal all that was going on in his head, all that he was struggling against. How long would it be before he found out? Did he already know? Would he tell anyone? John wished he knew; the uncertainty was overwhelming.

Every Monday at 7 o'clock there was a fifteen to twenty minute Assembly in the auditorium before classes started at 7:30. Any important announcements for the week were given during that time, and unfortunately attendance was taken, so John and the rest of the students at Whitestone begrudgingly made their way through the open doors. There was a piece of paper taped to one of the doors, a seating chart, because having it made taking attendance easier. So every week since John had arrived he checked to see if his name had been added to it. It had taken long enough, but finally he saw the highlighted word 'new!' written on the paper. He pushed his way through the crowd, pressing himself against the door to avoid being sucked in by the steady stream of students funneling into the auditorium before he saw where he was supposed to be seated so he wouldn't get counted absent by accident.

The seating chart was completely random, for some reason, and it took John a while to find his name. When he finally did find it, his heart sank, and he concluded then and there that fate had something particular against him and was determined to make his life hell. That was the only reason he could think of for why he would be sitting next to Sherlock Holmes.

Fucking. Sherlock. Holmes.

John slowly made his way into the room, hoping against hope that Sherlock had decided to skip Assembly. But no, there he was, sitting at the end of the row by the wall, with John's empty seat to the left of him. A lump formed in John's throat as he walked numbly towards that seat, looking down at his feet to avoid looking into Sherlock's all-knowing eyes. John squeezed between the boy's long legs and the seat in front of them and sat down. It's only for fifteen minutes, he told himself.

As the principal droned on about matters that, honestly, no one was paying attention to, John fought the urge to look at Sherlock. And failed. He couldn't help it in the end, and he looked at the boy next to him out of the corner of his eye to see if he had been watching him like John felt he had. Sherlock, actually, was not paying much if any attention to him. John thought he should have felt relieved, but he didn't.

Sherlock instantly became aware when John's gaze lingered for too long, and he looked down questioningly at the boy. When Sherlock's piercing gray eyes met his John's face grew hot and he averted his stare. He turned to the clock and groaned inwardly when he realized what had felt like ten minutes had, in fact, only been about four. It was going to be the longest fifteen minutes of his life.

John was obliviously uncomfortable. Not that it surprised Sherlock. It was hard enough to get people to sit in the same row as him, and anyone unlucky enough to sit in the seat directly next to him was bound to be uncomfortable. Sherlock was used to it. Don't worry, he didn't mind. But then, when Sherlock looked closer, he noticed that John wasn't showing signs of annoyance or hostility, like Sherlock was used to. It was more like…fear. Well, that was a new one, Sherlock thought. It was odd; he didn't remember ever striking fear into anyone before. He wasn't exactly sure how he had even done it.

John's incessant twitching and sideways glances were starting to irritate him. Sherlock sighed and supposed he should try to put him at ease so he wouldn't be so distracting. "Despite what your impression of me might have been," he started in a deep, hushed tone, "I'm not a psychopath."

John looked at him in alarm. He hadn't expected Sherlock to speak. "Oh, um…" he wasn't sure what to say. "That's—"

"I'm a high-functioning sociopath."

"Oh." Sherlock had a kind of smile on his face that made John wonder if he was trying to comfort him or just mess with him. "Right. And…what's the difference?" Did it matter?

Sherlock exhaled slowly, eyes closed. "I'm not going to dignify that with an answer. Go google it if you're so interested."

John fell short of a response. He looked back at the clock. Eight minutes total had passed. He turned his attention to the principal, still going strong. Slim chance of being let go early.

"So, uhh…" John started again after a bit of silence, not looking at Sherlock. "You _don't_ figure out everyone's secrets for your personal amusement?"

"No, I do." Sherlock said as if he didn't understand the connection. John decided he was as good as dead. Sherlock asked, "Is that what's bothering you?"

"No, why should it bother me?" John spat sarcastically. "Thinking some stranger can look at me and read my darkest secrets as easily as a book. No, that's all perfectly fine, it's not like I have any dignity to maintain or anything." He stopped quickly when he realized he had started to ramble. He looked down at the floor again.

Sherlock looked at him curiously. It was painfully obvious to him, especially after his little rambling just then, that John had a secret to protect. The only thing Sherlock wondered about was whether he had already figured it out, or if he, God forbid, had missed something.

He leaned forward quietly, pressing his fingertips together in front of his face as he mulled over all the things he already knew about John Watson. "John Hamish Watson, Hamish being your father's name. Seventeen years old, from London, new to Whitestone Boarding Academy. Average intelligence, but persistent in school; above average personal care, though you try to come off as someone who doesn't pay much attention to appearances; below average height, which you are sensitive about. You play the clarinet, but not because of particular interest in the instrument; you like being physically active, you especially enjoy football, and you dislike American football. You have a strained relationship with your sister, probably because you're required to look after her despite the fact that she's older than you, which inevitably forced you to accompany her to this _fine establishment_ where she hopes to overcome her alcoholism and drug addiction. You like to believe you have a stronger moral compass than she does; it's probably true. Oh, and she's a lesbian, but she's probably not going to knock that. In fact I believe she has her eye on a girl named Clara. You don't like the fact that she's gay." He jerked his head suddenly to look John straight in the eye. "Did I get everything right?" After a beat, "More importantly, did I miss anything?"

John was frozen, breathless. He remembered Greg's words that Sherlock could tell you your own life story after just meeting you, but John had assumed that had been an exaggeration. He knew that Sherlock knew people's secrets, but he thought he discovered that by snooping, like the way he had gone through his locker, or by listening to gossip, which was how John thought he knew about Mr. Frankland's fooling around. He hadn't expected this. It was amazing. And terrifying. "How…how did you…?"

"Dismissed!" the principal announced.


	3. Chapter 3

**I've been updating rather quickly, haha. I'm really excited about this story I guess. I'm also excited about the followers on this! Thank you everyone! And, you know what would make me even happier? Reviews! Please? :D**

**I enjoyed writing this chapter! :) Though I have a feeling that some might not like Mary...haha.**

**Oh, and a quick note: In case anyone was wondering what I changed in the first two chapters, it was only some slight errors that I noticed on my part. Also, I added Sherlock saying he knew John was from London in chapter two, just cause I felt like it. That's all. :)**

**Well, enough of that. I hope you all enjoy the chapter! And again, review please!**

**...**

CHAPTER 3

Sherlock had jumped out of his chair immediately and disappeared in the throng of rushing students. John hurried after him. He wasn't going to let him get away so easily.

But Sherlock wasn't trying to get away. He just didn't want to be late for class; he already had a substantial number of marks against him, and he figured he should be more punctual for a while to keep the teachers off his case. He and John had first period together, anyway, so everything was fine. Sherlock wasn't about to let his question go unanswered just like that.

Sherlock sat down in his usual place, to the left and towards the back. When John finally arrived and saw where Sherlock was seated, he took the seat next to him without hesitation. One by one, the rest of their class filed in. Mr. Frankland hadn't arrived yet, to no one's surprise, so John leaned over the space between their two desks and asked pointedly, "How the hell did you know all that?"

Sherlock spoke rapidly, estranged. "Simple, observation and deduction, now answer my question: Did I miss anything?"

"No, I want to know _exactly_ how you knew that."

"I asked my question first."

"I don't care, I'm not answering it."

"Why not?" Sherlock said with the tone of a whining child.

John responded, too loudly, "Because!" He started again, speaking even softer than before, "Because…why the bloody hell would I tell _you_ any of that? I don't even know you."

"What does that matter?" John gave him a stupid look and Sherlock sighed. "I'm not asking you to reveal anything to me, I just want you to confirm that my deductions were correct and tell me if I figured out what you've been being so secretive about."

"Secretive? I'm not being secretive." John, even as he spoke, realized he automatically appeared defensive.

Sherlock gave him a smirk. "Please, John, don't be cagey. There's really no point."

John flushed. "Fine." He thought back to what Sherlock said. "My middle name is Hamish. It was my father's name."

"Was?" Sherlock interrupted.

John paused. "He's dead."

"Oh, right. Continue." John stared at him in disbelief. "What?"

"Well," John said with a forced, awkward chuckle. "Usually, people say 'Sorry to hear that' or offer some condolences when they hear about someone dying."

"I'm a sociopath. Remember?"

"...Right." He took a deep breath. "Everything...everything you said...everything about me and my sister...it was all true."

Sherlock smiled smugly. "Really? That's impressive, even for me. Some points were a little dodgy—"

"What? You were just guessing?" John exclaimed.

"Educated guessing, it's different from just guessing."

"It's still guessing."

"Shut up." To Sherlock's surprise, John started laughing. He narrowed his eyes. "What's funny?"

"It's just...you!" He covered his mouth when he noticed people throwing questioning glances. "You really are everything Greg said you were."

"What did he say I was?"

"'Brilliant, but completely mad.'"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, wondering whether he should be insulted or flattered.

Mr. Frankland walked in just then, muttering his usual apologies. Sherlock scoffed, making John look back and forth from the teacher and the boy beside him. "What?" John asked, making sure Mr. Frankland didn't hear him. "Has he been snogging Mrs. Cairns again?"

"Mrs. Thompson, this time."

John was amazed, and for a moment he was tempted to ask just how Sherlock had gathered that, but he decided to save that question for later. It wasn't as pressing as finding out how Sherlock had come to know so much about him. While it was undeniably impressive, he couldn't wrap his mind around how anyone could be that clever. And, John didn't exactly like how vulnerable it made him feel. He had to ask about it. His body was rotated towards Sherlock's desk and he was about to open his mouth when Mr. Franklin bellowed, "Mr. Watson!"

John jumped at the sound of his voice. "Yes?"

"You'd do good to pay attention to what I'm saying, it'll be on the test this Friday."

John nodded and turned towards the front.

The class proceeded, and John stared absentmindedly at the whiteboard throughout the lecture, wondering about Sherlock, trying to come up with an explanation for his frightening accuracy. It couldn't have been something he picked up from other people. John had hardly spoken to anyone since he'd arrived, no one knew all those things about him. Had Sherlock spoken to Harriet? John didn't think so, and besides, Harriet wouldn't have told anyone all those things. While she may have been more social than John, she didn't gossip, and certainly not about their own personal lives. John eventually came to terms with the fact that he could not begin to figure out how Sherlock had come to know all those things. And to think, Sherlock probably knew just as much, if not more, about every single person in the school.

Every now and again he would steal a glance towards the boy beside him. He knew Sherlock noticed and just pretended not to. Sherlock kept his eyes down on his notebook, scribbling something or other on the page, his dark curls falling over his eyes. He looked so cold, so stoic, John thought. He was so strange. There seemed to be a whole world behind his eyes, a world very different from the one John saw. It was absolutely captivating; no matter how daunting.

And, after marveling at how brilliant he was, after being frightened at his powers of perception, it struck John that he hadn't mentioned the one thing that he had been deathly afraid of him finding out. Sherlock hadn't realized that he was gay. Correction, he hadn't realized that he was _bi_. Wait, no, he hadn't realized he was _confused_ about his sexuality. Very confused indeed.

But why hadn't he mentioned it? It certainly hadn't been out of courtesy; John figured Sherlock didn't even know the meaning of the word. And it didn't make much sense to give John the benefit of the doubt after having told him he knew his sister was gay. Still, it didn't seem possible that Sherlock, knowing all that he did, could miss something so crucial. Unless...

Unless John wasn't gay.

The bell rang, and John feared he was going to lose Sherlock amidst the crowd again. Sherlock had leapt out of of his chair, supplies in hand, so quickly that it seemed that he had forgotten to finish their conversation. "Sherlock!" John called after him.

He whirled around. "Don't worry, I'm not done with you yet. But, since our schedules hardly make this a convenient time, I'll find you later tonight." He gave John a smile. His lips curled tightly in his expression, somehow making him look so young and childlike. With that, he spun around and walked off with a swift gait.

Well, John didn't like being made to wait like that, but he forced himself to be diligent. Sherlock was right, anyway, that they had their own schedules they had to keep to, and this was definitely a conversation that couldn't be covered during passing periods. But other than being impatient, John was in a remarkably pleasant mood. After all, he had just found out _he wasn't gay_. Relief washed over him, and he started thinking maybe things weren't going to be so bad after all.

...

Even though Sherlock said he would find him that night, John couldn't help but look around at lunch time for him. He didn't have any luck finding him. It wasn't surprising, but John was still a bit disappointed.

John did, however, catch sight of his sister sitting with a small group of girls in the front of the cafeteria. He stood still for a while, wondering whether or not he should sit with them. Harry didn't call him, but she kept looking at him encouragingly, motioning him over. After some thought, John acceded. He might as well.

"John!" Harriet said happily when John finally came over and sat down. "This is my brother," she said to her friends. There were a total of four girls surrounding Harry.

"Hi," one of the girls said pleasantly, giving John a warm smile that made his heart swell. She had short blonde hair and a round face. She was small, dainty girl with a simple beauty about her.

"Hi," John said softly, nervously. Oh, he was _definitely_ not gay. He only hoped that the blonde girl wasn't Clara. That would be awkward.

"I'm Mary," the blonde girl said. Thank goodness, John thought. Mary gestured to a mousy brunette beside her. "That's Molly." Molly smiled shyly.

"I'm Soo Lin," another girl introduced herself.

And lastly, another pretty brunette that sat on the other side of Harry said, "I'm Clara." Harry looked at John searchingly, as if trying to read his initial reaction when meeting Clara. John didn't know why she wanted his approval so badly; he just kept smiling.

"I recognize you from class," Molly started uncertainly. "I'm in your A&P class."

"Oh," John said, surprised. "You're a senior?" She looked much too young.

"We all are," Mary said. John tried to keep himself from smiling and blushing like an idiot when she looked at him with her big blue eyes; he wasn't very successful.

"I saw you talking to Sherlock," Molly continued.

The rest of the girls erupted in giggles and Molly turned bright red. John looked around at them, wondering what was going on.

"Molly's a bit jealous," Mary informed him, "because she's in love with Sherlock."

Molly gave a squeak. "Mary!"

Now, John was very puzzled. He looked at Molly. "Are you really in love with Sherlock?"

Molly didn't answer. At least, not coherently. She was as red as a tomato, her eyes wide and glistening as she tried to stutter out an explanation. Her words kept getting jumbled, though, and no one bothered trying to interpret her blathering after a while.

John interrupted her, which was just as well. "I thought everyone hated him?"

"Most people do," Clara admitted. "There are a few who don't mind him."

"Very few," added Soo. "They just ignore him."

"And then there's Molly." Another fit of giggles.

"I don't know," Harry said with a mischievous look that John didn't like. "I think if you can ignore the rough edges he's actually good-looking." She looked at John. "What do you think?"

John glared at her, but he wasn't too upset. He wasn't gay anymore. Correction, he _never_ _was_ gay. "How would I know?" It was a good thing no one else seemed to catch Harry's implication.

"He's got a hell of a lot more than rough edges, is what I think," Clara said. "He's fucked up."

Molly looked appalled. "He's really not all that bad. I think he's really...I mean...when you understand him...he has a good heart." The way Molly spoke of Sherlock struck John, but the others had a different reaction. Soo rolled her eyes and Clara made teasing remarks, making Molly blush and stutter all over again.

"Hey!" Mary said suddenly, touching John's arm and making him jolt. "You could talk to Sherlock for Molly!"

John blinked. "What?"

Molly protested. "No! I mean, you really don't—"

"Molly's been trying to get his attention since Freshman year, but he's so oblivious."

"I don't think I can," John said. "I mean, I don't really know him. I've barely spoken to him."

"Just whenever you can, ask him if he likes any girl. Or just mention her name to him and see how he reacts."

"Mary," Molly whined.

"You'll thank me!" Mary insisted. She turned back to John. "Will you talk to him?"

How could John refuse her when she was staring at him with those sparkling blue eyes? He took a breath and, despite the feeling he was going to regret this later, nodded. "Alright."

…

It was late in the evening and John still had no sign or word from Sherlock.

John was in his room, preparing himself to do homework; he had been in the middle of this process for about thirty minutes. The process involved laying out his assignments on his desk and glaring at them, contemplating the ones he didn't want to do the most until through elimination he settled on where to start. After that, he would toss everything but the selected project to the side, stare determinedly at said project, perhaps imagine himself completing it, remind himself that he hadn't started and it was due tomorrow, and then write his name. This all took longer than it should have, usually about an hour or a little over. The process of actually doing the homework didn't take as long. He would pause after writing his name. Start again. Take 'breaks' when he got distracted. Start again. Usually, he finished all his homework by eleven.

But tonight he was more distracted than usual. Where the hell was Sherlock? Was it possible that he had forgotten? John didn't think that seemed likely. As he thought about it more, he remembered he had been in his room for the last three hours and he mentally slapped himself. No wonder Sherlock couldn't find him. He never told him where he would be, and he never told him his room number.

But even if he left his room now, where would he go so that Sherlock could find him more easily? John sat back and started thinking he should go to the lobby or something when there was a knock at the door. He looked immediately towards the door, questioningly. His initial assumption was that it was Sherlock. He just didn't know how that could be.

After the second knock, John got up and opened the door. He tried not to seem disappointed when he saw it was just his roommate, Billy.

"Sorry, mate," Billy said. "Left my key."

"It's alright." He let him come in.

Billy was a not exceptionally tall, stocky sort of guy with brown hair and a small jaw. John really felt lucky to have him as a roommate, because of his mild-mannered nature and tendency to be out of the room for the majority of the time. They didn't talk much, but they seemed to silently understand each other, at least enough to coexist tolerably.

Billy went to his desk and started rummaging through his drawers for something, probably his dorm key, before he would leave again. "Oh, hey, er." he said, not looking up at John. "Heard you were hanging around Sherlock Holmes now. That right?" He was straining to be casual.

John blinked a few times. Why was everyone getting the impression that he and Sherlock were best pals all of a sudden? "No," he said. "Where did you hear that?"

"Just around."

"I spoke to him for a few minutes."

"That's more than what most people do."

"It's not like we're friends or anything. And, besides, what does it matter? Why bring it up?"

Billy found and pocketed his key. "No reason, just thought I should warn you."

"Warn me about what?" John asked, trying to control the volume of his voice.

Billy shrugged. "Just, know how to pick your friends. That's all."

John narrowed his eyes, but didn't respond. Billy muttered some salutation and was off. Just after the door had closed, though, he heard Billy speaking to someone outside. Someone who, John realized instantly, sounded very much like Sherlock. He jumped up to open the door, but Billy had already done so.

Sherlock stood very erect and calm in the doorway, surveying the room. Billy shot John one last warning glance before he left, and then John and Sherlock were alone.

After a moment of seemingly impenetrable silence, John asked, "How did you know which room I was in?"

Sherlock smirked. "It wasn't too difficult to figure out."

Was Sherlock really _that_ clever? "Come on, I have to know."

"I asked the dean," was the somewhat confused reply.

"Oh." That made sense. Then John became very direct, having waited patiently enough. "Alright, so? What about all the other stuff? How did you figure out that?"

Sherlock sighed, as if having to explain himself was such a burden. "Alright, I'll speak quickly."

And he did speak very quickly. "New student, obvious. From London, accent. Seventeen, little chance I'd be wrong about that, thought I'd throw it out there, also the seating chart for Assembly is organized by birth month, for whatever reason, they probably thought it was clever. Your middle name is Hamish, I actually saw that on Mr. Frankland's attendance sheet. You have a satchel that says "Hamish Watson", you brought it to school once, it's a middle-aged working man's satchel, it's relatively new but was handed to you and you take good care of it, so it belonged to an older but close family member, most likely your father. Average intellect, also obvious, hearing you speak for five minutes told me that, but you're persistent in school, you make A's and B's in A&P, which many students struggle with. You're always clean, freshly shaven, your hair is precisely combed, clothes are neat though not taken care of too seriously, you don't go overboard with product or much styling or fragrances, so you like to look nice without bringing too much attention to yourself. Below average height, and you stand up very straight and square to try and compensate, so you're sensitive. Recently, the band put up a bulletin board, your picture was on it, you were playing the clarinet, the clarinet was only a few years old, but it hadn't been cleaned very well, if you really cared for the instrument you probably would keep it in better condition. You used to play rugby at your old school, now that was hearsay, but you're athletically built and you like sports because I noticed that your name was on the sign-up sheet for the up-coming intramural games, you signed up for all of them except American football, so you don't like it, though I might have guessed that without that knowledge, no one really likes American football except for Americans, and they hardly matter. Then there's your sister, who I've passed by a few times and have seen in the cafeteria once, though it wasn't that hard to figure her out."

Sherlock went on to describe Harry's pale complexion, her faded, red, puffy eyes and small pupils, her brittle hair and nails and dry skin, her shaky hands in the morning, the way she walked and leaned towards and looked at people, especially girls, her hips and her breasts and her fingers and a number of other things that had led him to the conclusion that she was a junkie/alcoholic/loose lesbian. During this time, John made his way to his bed and slumped down as he started to block the other boy out. It was partially due to the way Sherlock talked about his sister in such a detailed, insensitive fashion. Though John tried not to let it show, he felt like slapping him. But instead, he moved away and towards the bed as if to distance himself from Sherlock's calculations; he sat down because he couldn't bare to stand through it.

It was also due to the fact that, even apart from what he said about Harriet, _everything_ Sherlock said was so overwhelming. It seemed so intricate, delicate. Yet when he explained it, it seemed so simple, so much in fact that John thought for a moment that even he could manage it.

And he tried, for a moment. He looked Sherlock over very carefully. His narrow, cool gray eyes, his dark curly hair, his pointed nose, his thin lips, his high cheekbones, his firm jaw. His tall, slim form, his broad shoulders, his confident stance. Harry wasn't wrong, he was quite handsome. But deeper than his external appearance, John thought about what Molly said about his heart.

John quickly gave up trying to figure out anything about Sherlock, feeling like an idiot for even momentarily thinking he could deduce anything that he didn't already know, anything that wasn't surface level. It was a bit frustrating, and he starting wishing he had that ability. If he could figure out what Sherlock was like, what Sherlock was _really_ like, beneath that hard shell...what would he find?

Sherlock finished his exposition and waited silently for John's reaction.

"...Extraordinary..." The delivery was lacking, but the meaning was genuine. Sherlock knew this.

John was astounded when he saw a flash of emotion come across the boy's usually impassive features. It was a look of surprise, but he recovered so quickly from it that John started doubting that it had been there at all. "Of course," was what Sherlock said. And then, "It's your sister, isn't it?"

"What?"

"You know perfectly well. Though you disapprove of her actions, you still care about her. You're protective of her. You don't want people to know why she's here because you want her to get a chance at a fresh start. That's what you've been hiding. Or am I wrong?" Sherlock had a look on his face that showed he didn't believe for a second that he was wrong. Even John could tell that.

What he said _was_ true. He really hoped that Harriet would change her life around, and they had both consented to keep what her life had been like up till their arriving at Whitestone under wraps. And of course, John's sexuality was no longer a concern. So, John conceded.

Sherlock seemed very self-satisfied. "That's what I thought," he said. "I'll be off, then." He moved towards the door.

"Wait," John said, without a clear idea of why he wanted him to stay. He thought about bringing up Molly, or at least the subject of girls in general, but then decided that it wasn't the proper timing.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, standing a little impatiently by the door.

John found himself staring silently at Sherlock with no words coming to him. He remembered his first time meeting him, when he had wondered if he had some sort of mental illness. He remembered Sherlock calling himself a sociopath. He remembered Sally calling Sherlock 'special' and both her and Billy warning him to stay away. There definitely was something special about Sherlock, but John no longer thought it the way everyone else did. Again, John began to think of what Molly said about Sherlock's heart.

For a split second, he thought about telling Sherlock what he was thinking.

But, the words died in his throat. John became flustered before he had even gotten them out, and he was simply unable to follow through. "It's just..." he breathed deeply, "no one else knows about Harry, do they?"

"I wouldn't put money on it."

"Good. Let's keep it that way?"

Sherlock's expression seemed to soften and he understood. "Of course." Then he left.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you all for the lovely reviews! :) All your support is greatly appreciated. **

**Oh! I also thought I should point out, though no one's mentioned it, that my parents are British but I was raised in America. If that explains anything. If not, just ignore me.**

**This chapter proved to be a little more difficult to write. It's also somewhat shorter than the others, but hopefully it is still worth reading. Enjoy! :)**

**...**

CHAPTER 4

Sherlock woke up around six o'clock, just like he did every morning. He got dressed and ready, gathered his books and pens in his school bag, and went to the cafeteria. Most people he met on his way kept their distance, a few looked at him with disdain, there were some whispers and jeers, but Sherlock was overall immune to his surroundings. Sherlock counted himself lucky that his schoolmates weren't more forthright. If he had been smaller, weaker, if he were unable to defend himself against physical and verbal assaults alike, they might've been braver. But as it was, Sherlock could usually go about his day with very minor obstructions from those around him.

It was near the end of the week, and Sherlock hadn't eaten for a few days, so he deemed it wise to make time for breakfast that morning.

Though the people around him didn't usually speak very loudly, Sherlock wasn't as oblivious as everyone thought he was. He simply didn't care what they had to say about him. Really, all their trifling brains could ever conjure against him were either poorly conceived lies they could never back up or shallow truths that Sherlock was fully aware of without their assistance, thank you. It wasn't like he had ever even meant to hide anything in the first place, and either way the rumors made absolutely no difference. Sherlock had no energy to waste with worrying about other people's opinions. Their opinions of him would never change anyway.

Sherlock had always known how different he was from everyone else, and it had never really bothered him. He had always known that people didn't like him (he wasn't sure why, he found himself quite charming, witty, and just all-around good company), but it was fine. He didn't particularly like anyone else either, so he stayed alone.

Sherlock was fine alone. It was the way he was, had always been, and he had never suffered because of it. He didn't really understand the feeling of loneliness or the need everyone else seemed to have for human interaction. It had always seemed so trivial, so pointless, so troublesome. Because of this, Sherlock had never gone out of his way for the sake of anyone else. And because of how other people saw him, because they couldn't really know or understand or relate to him, no one went out of their way for him.

And it was all fine.

...

When John went to breakfast that morning he was very surprised to see Sherlock there, just a few people in front of him. He had heard it said that he rarely ate— he had heard some rumors that he never ate _at all_— and John had to admit that he'd never actually seen the boy in the cafeteria before. John kept an eye on that tall, dark head as they both made their way through the line. They hadn't spoken since Monday, that night when Sherlock was in John's room. Not that they had any reason to talk, as far as John knew.

Oh wait.

John, regrettably, remembered that he hadn't talked to Sherlock about Molly yet. Well, since they were both there, he figured now was as good a time as any to try.

When Sherlock went around the hot deck and got in line at the register to pay, John made sure to be right behind him. When Sherlock took brief notice of John's presence, John didn't hesitate to make his attempt at conversation. "Hey," he said with a nod at Sherlock.

Sherlock paused, brow raised. "Hey."

"You eat after all, I see."

He stared scrutinizingly. "Yes."

John tried to laugh, feeling the need to explain. "It's just, I've never seen you in the cafeteria, and I heard you don't eat." Sherlock looked confused and said nothing, so John went on. "But then...I should've guessed that wasn't entirely true...I mean...people have to eat..." Damn he felt awkward. He knew from the start he wasn't going to like doing this.

"Yes, I eat," Sherlock stated plainly. "And the only reason my eating patterns appear erratic is because, in this society, people are used to eating when they _want_ to and when they are _told_ to, whereas I eat only when I _need_ to."

John looked over Sherlock's lanky figure and jokingly retorted, "To prevent yourself from getting fat?"

"To prevent myself, my body and my mind, from becoming inert."

John and Sherlock both paid for their food and entered the sitting area, Sherlock heading towards a small, empty table in the front with John trailing behind him. Sherlock had no idea why John was following him and insisting on conversation, but he said nothing about it. Maybe he decided to indulge John for the moment. At the least, he wasn't annoying Sherlock, yet. So, they sat down across from each other and started eating in uncomfortable silence.

John was especially ill at ease, half his mind whirring to think of a way to begin a conversation, about anything at all if he couldn't bring up the subject of girls, while the other half was preoccupied with how Sherlock might be interpreting this sudden and unexplained attention. He tried to block out that latter half so he could focus on the first, but it didn't work. The two halves of his mind kept battling for dominance until neither felt like doing much more thinking and John was left completely helpless with absolutely nothing to say.

"John," Sherlock said suddenly. John flinched and found himself struggling to look him in the eyes. He always felt vulnerable under Sherlock's gaze. "If there's a reason...I mean, you seem to have something on your mind. So, you might as well speak up."

John supposed Sherlock was trying to make this easier on the both of them for however long they had to suffer through it, and he could've kicked himself for being so awkward. But with that little nudge, John abandoned caution and forced a pleasant smile. "How've you been?"

Sherlock stared at him blankly. "Fine."

This was going to prove extremely difficult if Sherlock was determined to speak in one-word answers. John racked his brain for more in-depth questions. "Anything interesting happen this week?"

"...No."

John stifled a groan. "Have you, um, got any plans for the weekend?"

"Nothing out of the usual."

Why was he being so bloody difficult? "So, what is the usual? What do you like to do?" Sherlock blinked at him silently. "What do you like, what are your hobbies?"

There was a short beat. "My hobbies."

"Yes."

"You're asking about my hobbies?"

"Yes?"

"Why?" He sounded suspicious.

John felt like shouting. He strained to suppress it, and his voice reached a higher pitch as a result. "I don't know? You know so much about me and I know so very little about you, I thought I might even the score."

John wasn't even sure where that statement came from, but it seemed to pacify Sherlock a little. "Well," Sherlock said, clearing his throat, thinking. "I...dabble in a few things."

"Like what?"

Sherlock scanned John's face, as if contemplating whether John really wanted to know, or if John really deserved to know. He started slowly. "I read."

John already knew that.

"I write a bit."

John hadn't known that. "Really?"

"Yes. Nothing elaborate, just some of my musings. I also play the violin. Mostly, I like to educate myself on a variety of topics I find interesting. For example, I'm a self-proclaimed glossophile, and I taught myself how to fence."

"Fencing? Wow." John wasn't sure how he felt about the idea of Sherlock Holmes armed with a sword, but he politely smiled and nodded. "Do you ever go to town?"

"I went once or twice. My room is much more interesting."

John chuckled dubiously. "So you just stay in your room all weekend? What's so interesting about that?"

"What's so interesting about going into town?" Sherlock rebutted.

"Um…" John couldn't really say specifically, since he hadn't gone to town yet, but then he figured one town is about the same as any another. "People? Shops? Just getting around?"

"Boring."

"I'm sure there must be something to do there."

"My room is still more interesting."

John chose to drop the subject and he moved on to something else, persistent in continuing the conversation now that Sherlock had started to open up. Somehow, he felt slightly underhanded at first, prying into Sherlock's life for the interest of some girl, but at least he could be justified by the fact that he honestly wanted to know more about him.

It was hard to pinpoint a single cause for his curiosity, there were many things he could think of, but he figured the most influential one was that he wanted to _understand_. To John, and —well— everyone, Sherlock was bizarre, enigmatic, and John thought that if he could find out more about him, find out some everyday qualities about him, Sherlock might become a little more...human.

John was special in that way. While most people shrunk away with resentment of the things they didn't comprehend, he saw those things as a challenge to be met head-on.

"You have any siblings?"

"Unfortunately," Sherlock sighed crossly.

John almost smiled at the knowledge that they shared something in common, even though a strenuous sibling relation probably wasn't something he should smile at. "Brothers or sisters?"

"A brother. Only one, thank God."

"What's he like?"

"Bothersome. Irritating. Vexatious. Hateful."

"...I can see we need to talk about something else."

"He's also gotten pudgier recently," Sherlock said, a little more lightly. "Sorry, I just thought it'd be fun to point that out."

John chuckled. "And was it?"

Sherlock beamed. "Never gets old."

They talked on, the conversation becoming a little smoother. John asked Sherlock questions, and Sherlock gave answers; answers that were never too extensive or personal, answers that never deviated from what John had specifically asked about. John took it as Sherlock being aloof, but Sherlock was merely being appropriate and efficient.

At first, Sherlock felt a bit like he was being interrogated, which made him disinclined to answer, but that feeling went away at some point. He certainly didn't mind talking about himself— he was the only person at Whitestone worth talking about anyway. At the same time, however, he wasn't sure why John acted like he cared, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to encourage John in this social endeavor. Sherlock took a moment to consider these things.

Sherlock realized, with no little conceit, that John had developed some amount of reverence in regards to him. John was obviously drawn to Sherlock because he saw something in him like nothing he'd ever known before and was enraptured. John was seeking out something that wasn't so ordinary. And Sherlock, of course, was anything but ordinary.

The two of them finished their breakfast and took their trays to the dish room. "Hey, I have to rush to the dorm, I forgot something in my room," John said. "See you in class, right?"

Sherlock watched John walk away. He decided that it might not be a bad thing if he unwittingly encouraged John. John may not have been as intelligent as he was, and he may not have been the most eloquent when socializing, but Sherlock couldn't deny that he was different than most people at Whitestone. At the very least, Sherlock decided he could put up with John's company.

...

Walking into the school's lobby, John happened to run into Molly. Well, actually, it seemed that Molly had been looking for him. When she saw him enter the school, her eyes looked up alertly and she rushed over. Her cheeks were glowing as she met John's eyes expectantly. Funny. John wondered what she could be expecting.

Oh right.

"Hey," Molly said with a nervous smile.

John knew she must have seen him with Sherlock. Even though she had been against it at first, of course she would want to know if they had talked about her. "Hey," John said, trying to be gentle. "Listen..."

"Did you talk to Sherlock?"

"Not yet. I will, though."

Her smile fell. "Oh. I just, I saw you at breakfast and..."

"Yeah, I didn't get a chance to bring it up. Sorry."

"It's fine..." Abruptly, she added, "So, what did you talk about?" She sounded a little sad, and maybe even a little jealous, but she immediately faltered. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered. "I don't want to be nosy, I…"

John felt conflicted as he found himself telling her all that he and Sherlock had talked about over breakfast. On the one hand, he got the strange sensation that he was somehow betraying Sherlock. On the other, he felt sorry for Molly. John had been able to reach Sherlock, somehow, and now Molly was depending on John to help her do the same. John had promised that he would do his best, and he had always tried to be a man of integrity.

Molly was utterly engrossed as John spoke about Sherlock. Everything contained an element of fascination to her. When John stopped talking, a little bit of light seemed to disappear from her eyes.

And then, the tardy bell rang.

...

John and Molly burst into the classroom, late. They had run all the way from the lobby and were now standing at the doorway, flushed and breathing heavily. Mr. Frankland (they were so late that even he had beaten them) raised an eyebrow at the pair. "The bell must have rung at quite an _inconvenient_ time. But it's nice that you two could come join us."

Students eyeballed them discerningly and snickered at the innuendo. John and Molly looked at each other and blushed. Molly quickly turned away, very embarrassed, and found a seat with some of her friends. John thought it very bold of Mr. Frankland to make such a hypocritical accusation; he walked rigidly in his irritation, more so in respect for Molly's reputation than his own.

For the second time that week, John took the seat beside Sherlock. John smiled at Sherlock as he sat down and felt a strange warmth when Sherlock smiled back. Even if it was just for the sake of formality, John decided he preferred Sherlock smiling at him than Sherlock peering at him stoically.

John felt a little bad for forgetting about Molly earlier, and he figured the sooner he got it over with the better everything would be. With this in mind, he tore out a piece of notebook paper, scribbled something on it, folded it up, and as soon as Mr. Frankland turned to face the whiteboard he tossed it over to Sherlock's desk.

Sherlock stared silently at the note on his desk. After a moment and a cautious look at Mr. Frankland, he wrote something on it without even opening it and discreetly passed it back to John. John picked it up, wondering why Sherlock hadn't even bothered to look at what was inside. On the top flap of the folded note, he saw in very clean, slanted handwriting a strip of numbers.

_077 2212 8629_

John felt slightly anxious when he realized he was holding Sherlock's phone number, but he pushed the feeling away. He looked up quickly, but Mr. Frankland was still talking to the board. John turned his mobile on vibrate, added the number to his contacts, and sent Sherlock a text.

_Too much trouble to pass a note?- JW_

He watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as the boy read the text under his desk and his nimble fingers began typing a swift response.

_Too elementary for my liking. Plus, Mr. Frankland would call us out as soon as he turned around. If we're not shamelessly conspicuous, he won't care that we're texting.- SH_

_You sure?- JW_

_He never cares when people text.- SH_

_Alright.- JW_

John still kept a wary eye on Mr. Frankland.

_Didn't read the note. What did it say?- SH_

_Yeah, I noticed. It just asked why you're always by yourself.- JW_

_Why?- SH_

_Just wondering. You don't have any friends or anything?- JW_

_No.- SH_

Such a brusque response filled John with pity. He looked again at Sherlock, but the boy seemed completely unaffected. Like he didn't know that people weren't meant to be alone. That made it seem even worse to John.

Though, John didn't suspect mentioning this would affect Sherlock either, so he simply stuck to his purpose.

_Really? No girlfriend or anything?- JW_

Hopefully that wasn't too obvious. Oh well, still better than delaying it.

_No.- SH_

_Why not?- JW_

_Not really what I'm interested in.- SH_

John blinked, reading the text over and over.

_Oh.- JW_

He had sent the reply mechanically, numbly, not really thinking about what he was saying or what Sherlock's text had said or what it all meant. He seemed to be in a daze, but he looked back at their conversation and slowly it dawned on him. _Oh._

_Shit._

John's heart started thumping faster and he felt something like panic rising inside him. He wasn't sure why he was reacting this way, he tried to be calm, but it had never occurred to him. The possibility had never entered his mind, and he wasn't prepared for this.

_Sherlock was gay?!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry it's taken me so long to update. Lots of things going on that I needed to take care of, but I've had more free time recently, so new chapter! Sorry it's short…**

**I can never make up my mind as to what the second genre on this story should be. At first it was humor, but the humor only comes in small doses and undertones so I didn't think it should qualify. It's romance now, although I haven't really gotten to the romance yet, so I'm thinking of changing it again. Though, I have no idea what to change it to. Oh well...**

**Do you like the story? Tell me what you think! I love hearing from my audience. :)**

**...**

CHAPTER 5

An empty street in a quiet neighborhood, in London on the precipice of fall, and two high school boys stood outside one of the many nearly identical houses on the block. John thought it was very mundane, but it was better than being at his house.

"So, what's it like?" his friend, Mike Stamford asked. Well, Mike probably thought of John as a friend, but even though they hung out John had never felt very close to the other boy. John had, in a way, grown used to Mike's company, because he was really the only person he had sometimes, so maybe he could call him a friend. Still, it felt a little more complicated than that.

"It's…" John shrugged. "It's what you'd expect, I suppose. I mean, it's nice. The school is old, but they've kept things up. The people are…more or less normal. They're not special or anything. Not really…"

"It doesn't sound too bad."

"Yeah. That's basically all there is to it."

"Bet you're glad to be home, though."

"…Yeah." A boldfaced lie.

Home leave had snuck up on John. He wasn't sure which was better, staying at Whitestone or coming back to London; he doubted there was a high road in his situation. Anyway, it wasn't as if he had a choice. During home leaves, the school shut down. All the students had to leave, either by school transportation, having someone pick them up, or whatever means necessary. There were two home leaves in the year, one in the middle of each semester, that were each a week long. On top of that there was the Christmas vacation, of course, which was two weeks long. These breaks were, for many of the students, the only opportunity to go home during the school year, so it was a sacred time for most. John, however, hated coming home.

…Hate may be too strong a word. John loved his family, and he did miss them while he was away. But as much as he missed them, he couldn't stand being around them for a whole week.

"I'm home," John called as he closed the front door.

"Where have you been, sweetheart?" he heard his mother call from the kitchen. "You finally come home, and then you're out all day! I've barely seen you." John found his mother bent over the stove, cooking pasta.

"I was just with Mike, mum."

She squeezed his arm and planted a kiss on his cheek, which he immediately wiped away. She told him to go wash his hands, since supper was just about ready. They ate in front of the telly and didn't talk much.

John was glad his mother wasn't in a chatty mood. When she felt like talking, she usually asked him about school, about Harry, about what he was thinking at that particular moment, about college, and she talked about bills and debt and finances, and if she dared mention his dad John thought he might scream. It probably wasn't her fault that these were all the things that occupied her mind, but John still didn't like hearing about it.

When it was starting to get dark, she asked, "Where's Harriet? Why hasn't she come down to eat?"

"I don't know. Are you sure she's home?"

"She's been in her room all day. Why don't you go check on her."

John didn't think she was really in her room, and sure enough when he looked inside the place was empty and dark. He wondered how his mother could be so unobservant until he noticed the window was open a crack.

"She's gone," he announced upon entering the kitchen.

"Gone?" his mother exclaimed. "Gone where? Where's she gone?"

He didn't know, but he had a pretty good hunch. "She used the window. She'll be out all night, probably. Must have gone to visit old friends."

He held his mother's gaze, wishing he could look away. Her face looked so sad, so tired. "You're lying to me."

"No, I'm not."

She turned away from him and looked down at the bowl that she had started to put the leftovers into. She was very still for a long time, until she finally just dropped the bowl on the counter and shuffled off, wringing her hands.

John sighed. He finished putting the leftovers away and then went to his room. He lied sleeplessly for several hours, bored, wishing the walls were thicker so he couldn't hear his mother's sobs. He woke sometime the next morning without realizing he had slept.

And that was all there was to it. That's all he had to look forward to when he came home, and if he were to be honest, he didn't think it was all worth it. Harry had sneaked back in through the window and slept for most of the day, just as she had done before they were sent to Whitestone. John didn't bother waking her up and scolding her that very instant. He never really felt like he got through to her, like he wasn't just wasting his breath. He heard his mother get up and make coffee, and John hadn't even gotten out of bed yet. He wasn't sure what he should get out of bed for.

If there was something to do, maybe it could distract him. If he had somewhere to go, besides Mike's. If he just had someone he could really talk to.  
Just then, his phone buzzed. He was hesitant to see who was texting him, since he assumed it could only be Mike. His felt something inside him plunge when he saw the name that flashed on the screen.

"Sherlock…?"

John hadn't spoken to Sherlock since…well, since he had found out he was gay. He hadn't really wanted to. Not that John was homophobic; he really wasn't. He never had any problems with gays before, except for Harry, but that was only because she was his sister. Her sexuality had always seemed like just another shallow means of self-gratification, total indiscretion, a demolition of any and all inhibitions. But John knew that wasn't the way it was for everyone.

He wasn't sure what it was for Sherlock. It was really none of his business anyway, and the last thing he needed was a reputation by association. (Sherlock certainly had a reputation.) John just wanted to maintain a peaceful, undisturbed existence throughout high school, so he had come to the conclusion that it was in his own best interest to stay away from Sherlock.

_Don't bother trying to find me. You won't.- SH_

Well, so much for that.

He had been expecting something more along the lines of 'Hey, what's up?', or at the very worst, 'Why have you been avoiding me?'. This was something much more alarming. He took a moment to figure out a reply.

_Sorry?- JW_

_Oh. Wrong number.- SH_

That wasn't altogether relieving.

_What was that about?- JW_

_It was for Mycroft.- SH_

_Who?- JW_

_My brother.- SH_

_Oh. And why were you sending it?- JW_

_Because I'm not at home and I don't want him to try and look for me.- SH_

_Why aren't you at home?- JW_

_You ask an awful lot of questions. Are you always this interested in other people's personal lives?- SH_

John couldn't think of a good way to answer that question, but he tried.

_I was just afraid something was wrong.- JW_

He hoped that made him sound less nosy. He wasn't sure, though, since Sherlock never replied.

…

"You made mum cry, you know," John said once Harry had regained consciousness.

She peered from under the covers, bleary-eyed from sleepiness, or substance, or both. John didn't even want to know what she had been doing last night. Whatever it was, he knew it wasn't good. She was backtracking.

She spoke gruffly. "She knew I'd gone out?"

"Of course she knew! Did you think you were being discreet?" John realized he was yelling and reminded himself to tone it down, so his mother wouldn't hear and get upset again.

She sat up suddenly, "Why are you always scolding me like I'm the younger one, eh? You don't have to always look out for me!"

John scoffed. "It's not like you're looking out for yourself."

"I'm trying, alright? I am! You think this is easy? You can't expect me to quit everything cold turkey! If you want to be helpful, how about a little love and support?"

John didn't stay long when she started that. He blocked her out, walked away, and slammed the door behind him. He lingered in front of her room, though, half expecting to hear her start whining in self-pity.

But he didn't.

He didn't hear anything.

He went out for some air, like he always did after something like this. He kept beating himself up, wishing he might've been gentler with her, wishing he could give her the support she wanted. He was too angry with her.

He walked around the block a couple of times, not wanting to go back in the house, but feeling a little lost, with no where else to go. He knew Mike would listen if he wanted to talk to him, but this wasn't the kind of thing he was comfortable sharing with him. He wouldn't understand, anyway. And he'd probably try to offer advice, which wasn't what John wanted.

John looked through his list of contacts on his cell, thinking with desperate hope that it might remind him of someone he'd somehow forgotten, some friend or comforter in this situation. Along with the number for Whitestone and some random acquaintances from his old school that he hardly remembered, there was Billy, his mum, Harry, Mark, and Sherlock; it didn't even add up to ten contacts. That, John dismayed, was pretty pathetic.

And then, his phone buzzed.

_Damn him. He found me.- SH_

His first thought was a question as to why Sherlock was informing him of this, but then he thought Sherlock probably didn't want to suffer alone. Like anyone, John supposed.

…Like him.

Now, John figured Sherlock wouldn't be the least bit interested in his problems, especially if he had some of his own. Sherlock may or may not try to offer advice, but more importantly John couldn't imagine Sherlock offering anything close to what one might call consolation. John hadn't even spoken to him recently, since he found out he was gay, and who knows what sort of impression that left. (Not a good one.)

_Sorry 'bout that. Where were you hiding?- JW_

But, desperate times and all that.

Of course, John wasn't going to talk about all this personal stuff with Sherlock, he wouldn't hear of it, but at the very least he figured Sherlock would be a most interesting distraction.

_Just a hospital near where I live.- SH_

_Why did you go to a hospital?- JW_

_Lots of interesting and useful things to be learnt there.- SH_

_I see.- JW_

John decided to go home then, and he and Sherlock texted for a while longer. John resisted the urge to spill his heart out, but after a while he really did forget that he was upset. A few minutes later and he wouldn't even remember what they had talked about, but simply talking to another person who he didn't really know, who wasn't involved in the mess that was his life, who he could actually have a normal conversation with was exactly the kind of relief John needed. It was strange, John realized, how someone next to a stranger could be much more welcome company than his own family.

After a little while, Sherlock stopped responding. No salutation or explanation; he just didn't reply. And John tried not to feel too disappointed.


End file.
